Page 37 of Dragon Unleashed

I’m too close to avoid it. The back of his hand smacks me across the mouth, his signet ring drawing blood. I pull my handkerchief out, dabbing my lip. Wrong move. He whips himself into more of a rage.

“What did I raise? Pussy boy! Scared of a little blood! No wonder you can’t woo her, you’re not good enough. I should take her for myself.”

He jumps me, fists flying. I hold myself completely still for a fraction of a second.

This ends. Now. Before he considers that as a real possibility.

Pulling my arm back, I throw an uppercut that hits him square in the jaw. He staggers back and spits a mouthful of blood onto the pale cream rug. He pauses, staring down at the bright red stain, a scowl on his face.

That’s right, old man. This time, I’m fighting back.

Despite his age, he’s a fit, muscled man and knows where to strike, where to cause the most pain and damage. He strikes out with whips of magic, stripping the clothes and skin from my back. Clenching my teeth, I blank out the pain. He must take my hesitation as weakness and moves in for a knockout punch. As his fist flies at my stomach, I catch it, twisting it behind his back. Immobilizing him. I’m far stronger than him—he just didn’t know it until this second. I press his face against the wall, yanking his arm further behind his back.

“No more, old man. You will not do this to me anymore. I am no longer that little boy you could beat at will. This ends today.”

I let go cautiously, stepping back. Slowly my father turns to face me and pride burns in his eyes.

“Finally, son. I thought you’d never learn to be a man.”

Seriously? He’s more fucked up than I thought. Snapping and pinning him down makes me a man? Psychopath.

He draws himself up to his full height and pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket.

“I will find other ways to discipline you, my boy. Make no mistake.” He adopts a sly look. “Your allegiance makes you weak.”

I try to keep the alarm from my face.

“Remember, I’m doing this for you,” he says. “Stick to the plan. If Chano and Lorelei bond further, rest assured Lorelei will disappear. I cannot take that risk. You cannot take that risk.”

He leans his head forward, and I light his damn cigar with a flame from my fingertip. An old party trick he used to love when I was a kid. He blows a puff of smoke straight in my face before turning and striding out of the room, oblivious to the destruction under his feet.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath.

He’s right, though not for the reasons he thinks. I can’t risk it because of him. Because of the lengths he’s willing to go to. I won’t risk Lorelei’s life.

She might hate me forever, but she’ll be alive to hate me.

Chapter Seventeen: Lorelei

Supernatural Historysmacks me in the face as I doze off, again. Rolling over, I drop it off the side of my bed with a groan. Damn the professor and her stupid test on Monday. Double damn Silas and his training schedule for the weekend.

I pick up my tablet, mindlessly scrolling through Magabook. My finger pauses over Camille’s two-page rant to the world, featuring yours truly. She was angry before, but this is next-level. What did Farrell say now? Groaning, I flick to his most recent post. It’s only a picture of my necklace. Big deal. I saw the presents he got her last year—diamond earrings that cost as much as a small country. My gaze skips to his tag.

A little present for my bae. Here’s hoping the next piece I give her is a ring. #soinlove #myqueen #isthatweddingbells

No wonder Camille’s pissed. Hell, I’m pissed. He’s gone too far, again.

Shit, Chano’stios.They’re going to have a field day.

I turn off my tablet and stack it on top of my leaning tower of books. I gave him permission. It’s my fault.

I stare at my ceiling for far too long. I’ve barely scratched the surface of the wholeprincessthing. With a grunt I get up and haul the box Farrell gave me down from the top shelf of my wardrobe. Enough avoidance.

I flip through the newspaper cuttings, reading each one several times. There’s so little real information here. My fingers touch something smooth jammed in the corner. I prize out a thin bar of soap. Curiously I turn it over, reading the label.Jasmine and lavender—her favorite brand.I recognize Farrell’s neat cursive. He hunted this out? Thoughtfulness is so unlike him.

I duck my head, inhaling a rich, almost sensual aroma. Now I know what my mother smelled like. Even if I don’t remember.

I rummage around for any other hidden gems and come up with a small cloth figure, no bigger than the palm of my hand. What the hell is this patchwork monstrosity? It’s like something out of a horror movie. A tiny, deformed patchwork vampire princess, complete with its own little metal sword and fangs. I scrabble through the photos of Princess Irena again. There. She’s clutching this very thing, like it’s a damn doll. Who gives crap like this to small children? It’s the stuff nightmares are made of. I stare at the sewn-up eyes of the gruesome little dolly, before hugging it to my chest.

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